Dear Soldier,
by myfunnylittlebrainisboring
Summary: A recovering drug addict and a soldier become penpals. Through their letters, they become friends...and eventually, their relationship becomes something more.
1. Thank You for Your Service

_I'm a high-functioning sociopath. I don't do emotions._

Sherlock slammed his fist against the door he had just closed behind him. Unwanted emotions roiled inside of him, leaving him panting and wanting to puke. Worst of all, they left him wanting to cry. Sherlock could feel his eyes film over with tears, threatening to coalesce into drops, and he wanted to throw himself against the wall until they disappeared. Or better yet, until he passed out from pain and exhaustion so that when he woke up, he was calm enough to delete everything.

_Ungrateful little shits, the lot of them,_ thought Sherlock, still leaning on the door. He had just solved a case that had stumped Scotland Yard for weeks in just a day. Lestrade had been pleased with Sherlock, but disappointed with his underlings for not being able to actually get their brains straight and find any clues. A disappointed Lestrade was not a nice Lestrade, and the general constables and sergeants weren't happy. Unable to deal with Lestrade's dissatisfaction with their performance, many of them directed their resulting negative emotions at Sherlock. Usually, the consulting detective was able to ignore their muttered comments and insults, letting them roll off him like water droplets on a waxed surface. However, this time, one of them managed to pierce his armor.

"Who does he think he is, waltzing in here as if he, a worthless druggie, is better than us law enforcement? Let's face the truth, no one likes him, and no one ever will. Lestrade only puts up with him to use him as his personal sniffer-dog and puzzle-solver. He should go back on the streets where belongs. That way, he won't be such a nuisance."

They didn't know how hard Sherlock worked to get clean, denying his body what it craved, allowing it to be ripped apart with want—all for the sake of being able to solve cases. They didn't know how Lestrade had given Sherlock an ultimatum—get rehab or get out—but didn't expect Sherlock to actually succeed. They didn't know how fucked up it was for the brain to work at top speeds twenty four-seven; sometimes, Sherlock just wanted it all to stop, stop, _STOP_.

It wasn't until then that Sherlock noticed the tremors, the shaking, the sweat beading on his forehead, on his palms, under his collar. The raging want in his blood. His mind screamed to be silenced. With a roar that would definitely bother the neighbors (not that Sherlock cared), the man lunged around the flat, ripping apart stacks of paper, bookshelves, and cabinets._ Fuck the Scotland Yard and rehab and stupid Mycroft who can't mind his own damn business; I need my fix, and NOW._

Though the logical part of Sherlock's mind was pushed aside for the addict part to reign, that didn't mean the logical part wasn't there. It was yelling at the addict to stand down, pleading for Sherlock to distract himself and not rip away the enormous progress he had made in the last several months.

Suddenly, he came across a box of nicotine patches. Sherlock ripped it open and slapped several patches onto his arm. They were not exactly what he wanted, but they would do. Finally, his cravings subsided just enough to allow for him to calm down a notch, even if only for a minute. Sherlock finally stopped trashing the room and stood up to take in the damage done to his flat. Drawers were ripped out of their slots, books were pulled out of their shelves, and papers littered the floor. A small flyer fluttered down in front of Sherlock's feet, the last remnant of the whirlwind. It went like this:

LETTERS TO SOLDIERS

Thank you for your brave fight for Queen and country! Show your support and gratitude by mailing letters to the following address:

75839109, Major James Sholto

Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers

Operation Herrick

BFPO 758

Major Sholto will distribute your letters to the brave men and women so that they can feel home away from home.

Sherlock didn't even know how this flyer ended up in his apartment and where it came from. But as he wasn't exactly in his right mind, he wasn't going to complain about this sudden distraction. Maybe mailing a soldier, though dull as it sounded, would help take a further edge off of his cravings. Quickly, he whipped out a pen and a slightly wrinkled piece of parchment from the piles on the floor, sat down, and wrote.

_Dear Soldier,_

_My name is Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective. I don't know how or why I'm writing this. Do I have to thank you for your service? Thank you for your service to Queen and country. Boring, dull. Everyone writes that, but do they mean it? When I watch politicians on telly I can see the lip-service, the false-patriotism. Not that it's all completely faked, but I can see the image many put up._

_Changing topics. As I said in the previous paragraph, I don't know how or why I'm writing this. I saw a flyer in my flat. I don't know how it got there. I don't know if I should tell you how I found it…oh screw it, you probably won't even find me if you get back—IF. There's always a chance you won't make it. If I make you angry, I'm sorry, but I'm just stating the obvious._

_I'm a recovering drug addict, almost done with rehab. I only agreed to it because a detective inspector at Scotland Yard told me that was the only way he would allow me to work on any cases. What he doesn't understand—what no one understands—is that my brain is too chaotic and works too fast for everyone else to follow. I notice details no one else notices. I can spot a needle in a haystack while everyone else is too caught up in freaking about the impossibility of finding it. But sometimes it gets too much. I took drugs to help my mind work more efficiently, more ruthlessly, more focused. Sometimes, I took drugs just to shut it up. I am a high-functioning sociopath; I don't need to know how everyone feelsabout me. After all, emotions are just chemical defects found in the losing side. Cases don't need to be solved with arse-kissing and trite social niceties._

_That's what I tell myself, and that's what I've learnt in my life._

_I create an armor of logic and ice around me, and it works. Almost all the time. As much as I loathe to admit it, sometimes an insult will worm its way in, an echo of the taunts from my lesser peers in primary school and uni. The mocking voices still follow me into adulthood. For example, today I solved a major case: a triple-homicide cleverly disguised as suicide. I was able to find the clues and connect the dots. The detective inspector was pleased, but everyone else wasn't. And because they have no brain to understand that they need to get their heads out of their asses, my cravings have been triggered and I'm spilling my 'non-existent' heart to some stranger who will probably die in gunfire and has no care about my sob story. Fuck. What am I even doing?_

_But I'm surprised. It feels as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, even though that saying is extremely clichéd. I suppose I must thank you, regardless of what you think of me. In a sea of empty thanks for your service to Queen and country, I hope you find this one genuine, as I rarely thank anyone. Thank you for using you as a sounding board, for preventing me from relapsing. Thank you for your service._

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock quickly found an envelope, scribbled the address and sender information on it, tacked on some random stamps, and dropped it in the letter box outside his door while he still had the nerve. Then he stalked back inside, not caring about the books and papers he tread on, and proceeded to pass out on the sofa.

* * *

><p>AN: I apologize for any OOC-ness.


	2. A Random Stranger with the Weirdest Name

"Watson!" Major James Sholto's voice rang out from the other side of John's door. Presently, the regiment was awaiting new instructions and restocking supplies; their next mission wasn't until two days later.

John poked his head out into the hallway. "What is it, Jim?"

Sholto barked out a laugh. "You're lucky no one else is in the hallway right now; I could get you punished for disrespecting a commanding officer." John just grinned at his friend and superior. "Anyways, here's a letter for you, from home."

John frowned. "Is it from family? I thought Mum and her husband are still refusing to talk to their son because he enlisted, and Harry is still too drunk to even send out a letter."

"Ah, yes, your fucked-up family. Nah, it's not from them. Actually, you're in luck; these are from the good citizens who just want to send support and gratitude for protecting them. You get a random one."

The medical doctor just shrugged and took the envelope. He was bored, anyway. John said goodbye to Sholto and went back into his sleeping quarters to read the letter.

_"Dear soldier, My name is Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective."_

Well, that was already interesting. A consulting detective? And the world's first and only one? A bit conceited for the guy, but okay. At least this letter wasn't from another five-year-old kid whose scrawl was nonsensical and unreadable, despite supposedly good intentions.

As John continued to read through the letter, he felt annoyed, then angry, then empathetic, then understanding, then touched. He was able to help a recovering addict resist relapse. It was surprising how a thank-you-for-your-service letter could make him feel so many different emotions. The sender was, no doubt, a prick. But he wasn't actually a bad guy.

_Sherlock Holmes, hmm?_

John decided that this letter was worth replying, unlike the vapid ones written by three-year-olds who didn't understand what they were writing. He stole a bit of parchment and an envelope from his bunkmate's stationary box (who still had those nowadays?), got a pen from his own bag, and began to write.

_Dear Mr. Holmes (or should I call you Sherlock?),_

_Thank you for the interesting letter. To be honest, at first I thought you were a prick. I still think you are. But that doesn't mean you're a prick as a whole, if you know what I mean? Your thanks mean a lot to me. Lucky for you, my regiment is at a base right now awaiting our next mission, so I have a little time to reply without being shot before doing so._

_Regarding your history with drugs. You were wrong about me not caring or being understanding. My family has a history of substance abuse. My parents, for example. First, it was my father. When I was eight, he started having problems at work. At first he would drink a glass of wine or a bottle of beer every night to unwind from a stressful day. But then he started drinking more and more. Let's just say that he wasn't very pleasant when he was drunk off his ass. One night he was driving home and his car wrapped around a tree. Although he wasn't nice when he drank, he was a good dad and husband when he was lucid; Mum was devastated. That was when she began drinking. When my sister came out as gay, my mum didn't take it well with those traditional values and "I want grandchildren" and all that BS. She started rebelling and getting into Mum's alcohol stash, and still has an alcohol problem to this day, as far as I know. Luckily, Mum got married again to a guy who takes care of her, but both of them got pissed at me when I enlisted. As you can see, I have a pretty fucked up family, and I just hope to God that I'm won't get caught up in that fuckery. Well, I say that, but here I am getting shot at in Afghanistan…_

_You can call yourself a high-functioning sociopath to get through your days as—what is the term—consulting detective. (Interesting job though, you should tell me more.) But I can tell that you feel. And you compartmentalize those hated emotions. I'm not one to tell people what to do, but I know that doing so is unhealthy for the mental state. Or something. If you can't talk to anyone back in London, then you can write to me. Hopefully I'm not too boring for your genius, and hopefully I don't get blown up in this hellhole._

_Thank you for your genuine gratitude, and I'm glad I could be of some use. You can write to me directly at this address:_

_75839203, Captain John Watson_

_Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Operation Herrick_

_BFPO 758_

_Sincerely,_

_John Watson_

John sighed and put down his pen. Resolutely, he stuffed the letter into the envelope and wrote Holmes' address on the front. Then, stretching as he went, he left his bunk to go to the postal office room.

"Hey, Jack, a letter to London," John called out as he strode into the room, handing the envelope to the man who was sitting at the desk.

"Oh, for a lady at home? Or family?" Jack replied, glancing up from where he was scribbling his signature on a large stack of forms.

"Nah, some random stranger with the weirdest name," replied the captain, already turning around to leave the room for the mess hall.

Jack shrugged and tossed the letter into the box labeled "Outgoing- Great Britain."


	3. Don't Forget About Christmas Dinner

Sherlock lay on the sofa, idly plucking his violin. There were no interesting cases to solve. It was as if all the criminals in England were taking a holiday. Needless to say, he was bored. Very bored.

Suddenly, there were three knocks against the door downstairs. Sherlock's lip curled derisively. _Of course, it's him,_ he thought. _He always prefers to use the knocker even though there's a doorbell. Old-fashioned git._ He didn't bother to move from the sofa; instead, he plucked "God Save the Queen" in time with the footsteps on the stairs coming up to his flat.

Immediately after the door opened, Sherlock sneered, "Here to talk about Christmas dinner?"

Mycroft tutted as he pushed the door closed with his umbrella. "You need to learn to respect your elders. And yes, Mummy insists. You don't want to disappoint her again, don't you? She's been so pleased about your recovery. It's best to at least show your face and reassure her about your state of health." The man sank down onto the chair across from Sherlock and crossed his legs primly.

"I assure you that my state of health will be much worse if I have to eat dinner with you," Sherlock retorted, pizzicato dissolving into random notes. "Oh, look, I already feel a bit dizzy looking at you and your corpulence. How is your diet going? After Christmas dinner, I doubt it's even going to matter."

Mycroft pressed his lips together but didn't rise to the bait. "Our parents are expecting us, which means you must go to dinner. I will say nothing more about this matter." He ignored Sherlock's snort and pulled out a letter from inside his suit jacket. "Now, would you like to tell me who 'Captain John Watson' is and why he sent you a letter from Afghanistan?"

Sherlock stopped plucking his violin strings. It took him a moment to dig through his mind palace to remember the letter-writing incident from a month and a half ago. "I'm afraid it's time for you to go away; I'm on a case."

"No, you're not."

Sherlock sighed. At least he tried. "Really, monitoring my mail, Mycroft? I'm sure you've already found all of his personal information," the consulting detective shot back, but he sat up and snatched the letter from Mycroft's hand.

The government official said nothing, only looking at him condescendingly. He stood up and grabbed his umbrella. "I will only give you one warning. Don't get attached." Mycroft walked to the door and pulled it open. Before he stepped out, he called out, "And don't forget about Christmas dinner," and walked out. He didn't bother to close the door behind him.

Sherlock fumed for a bit before sliding off the sofa to close the door._ Annoying twat who puts his big nose into everyone's business._ He then ripped open the envelope from "Captain John Watson" and scanned the letter.

_Left-handed from the slant of the handwriting. Slight scent of antiseptic—doctor, perhaps. Scrawl-y handwriting may support doctor hypothesis. Stop. Start reading._

At first, Sherlock was apprehensive. He hadn't meant to reveal so much about himself in his letter—to expose so many weaknesses to a stranger. But as he went through the letter, he realized that John Watson wasn't exactly "normal" either. Addiction was clearly genetic in the captain's family. Watson definitely had an addiction for adrenaline and danger; the man just didn't realize it.

A fellow addict, searching for the same rush—the same high.

Sherlock finally got down to the part where Watson offered to be his sounding board if there was no one in London. He became puzzled. Why would a person offer help to a complete stranger? They didn't even know what the other man looked like. Perhaps it was because of Watson's doctoring urges. But considering his life story in the letter, the man should at least have some trust issues.

_Wrong. Eagerness to share personal information about his family to a stranger contradicts trust issues._

_More information needed._

Sherlock smirked. Life wasn't so painfully boring after all. He stood up to dig out a clean piece of parchment and a pen from the stacks of papers on his desk. As he was walking, he noticed a tiny glint of light from the fireplace mantelpiece. Sherlock stopped, then turned his piercing gaze towards his skull, which lay on the ledge grinning back at him. Huffing, he stomped over and shoved his fingers roughly into the right eye socket, pulling out a small camera. He then dropped it onto the floor and brought his foot down onto the little, and no doubt expensive, piece of technology. Sherlock kicked the resulting fragments sloppily into the fireplace.

"Well, that's done. Stupid Mycroft," the consulting detective muttered before walking back to his desk and beginning to write.

_Dear Captain Watson,_

_I have decided that you are interesting enough for me to reply to your letter. Besides, there's absolutely nothing to do right now. Have all criminals decided to take a break for Christmas? Go home to their families and use shady money to cook up a nice meal and buy presents? The world will never know. But because of that, I am extremely bored right now, and it makes me want to rip my hair out._

_You wanted to know more about my occupation. I'm a consulting detective. As I said before, I'm the only one in the world. I invented the job. Whenever the police are out of their depth—which is always—they consult me. Most of the time, I work for Scotland Yard, but I take private clients as well…if their cases are interesting enough. I specialize in noticing the details everyone else misses; I see where others only look. I can make rapid-fire deductions and solve cases faster than an entire police detective unit. For example, I know from your letter that you're left handed and an army doctor. You're also an adrenaline junkie. Addiction is genetic in your family, unfortunately, and you didn't miss out. Smudging of the ink on the parchment shows that either you're careless, or you're not familiar with using fountain pens. I believe it's the latter, because I can see you've taken pains to neaten the stereotypical "doctor's scrawl." Therefore, the parchment and pen you used to write your letter are not yours, but they're most likely a bunk mate's._

_One thing I can't understand about you is why you would be willing to help a complete stranger and tell him personal information about your family._

_No one has ever done that for me before._

_Anyways, not only have you caught my interest, but you've caught my brother's as well. He must think it suspicious that I'm getting a letter from a stranger, because that usually only happens with criminals. He's probably dug up everything about you, but don't worry, he's probably too busy with his work to pay too much attention to you. Besides, he already spends way too much watching over my every move. He's such a git and can't mind his own damn business. Today he came to my flat and demanded that I go to Christmas dinner at our parent's house, and he used my mother's feelings as a persuasive device. The idea of spending an entire day and night with him is revolting; I don't know how I survived when we were children._

_Regarding Christmas, I hope you don't get blown up wherever you are. Otherwise, there isn't much you're missing out in London during the holiday. After all, even the criminals are laying low._

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_


End file.
